"Prepare Special Force Alpha Squad and Beta Squad for a rescue mission," Ragnar ordered abruptly.
Everyone looked bewildered—but no one dared object.
"And ready the medical team," he added, his eyes drifting to Azriel's frozen shoulder on the holographic screen.
"We need to hurry with the interrogation," Thomas said beside him, voice calm but firm. "If he really is Prince Azriel Crimson, staying in one place for too long is a bad idea."
"We leave the moment the SFAQ and SFBQ squads, along with the medics, are ready," Ragnar declared. "If we don't have an answer by then... we'll confirm it ourselves."
He turned the mic back on and focused again on the boy sitting casually on the screen.
"How can we truly know if you are Azriel Crimson?" Ragnar asked, his voice low but sharp, watching Azriel's eyebrows draw together.
Ragnar studied him intently, determined not to miss a single detail—his eyes, his posture, his tone.
"...If I'm truly Azriel Crimson?" Azriel repeated under his breath. But before Ragnar could speak again, the boy's eyes widened.
"Wait—don't tell me you think I'm one of those skinwalkers?!"
His voice cracked slightly in disbelief. Ragnar gritted his teeth.
'…what else are we supposed to think? This can't all be a coincidence.'
After a moment, Ragnar exhaled, trying to steady himself.
"Can you really blame us?" he said quietly. "Azriel Crimson, son of Joaquin and Aeliana Crimson... suddenly appearing in the middle of Europe."
Azriel was silent for a second. Then, his voice came again—soft, hesitant.
"...That voice."
He squinted at the drone, as if trying to focus through fog.
"Is that you, Uncle Ragnar?"
Ragnar's eyes widened before quickly hardening again into his usual cold stare.
'No… it could still be a skinwalker. One that somehow absorbed fragments of his memory.'
"Ah—sorry it took me this long to recognize your voice," Azriel said awkwardly, rubbing the back of his head with a forced chuckle. "My body and mind aren't exactly in the best shape after the… warm welcome I got in Paris."
He smiled sheepishly.
"Well, I suppose that explains why you're being so cautious."
"A—!?"
Before Ragnar could respond, a powerful presence swept through the base like a tidal wave of pressure.
The air shifted.
Every person in the control room stiffened. Some gasped.
"Who's there!?"
Ragnar and Thomas instinctively turned—but couldn't. Their bodies wouldn't move.
A voice spoke from behind them, rich and teasing.
"Haha~ Of course an adult let alone a child wouldn't find it very fun to be dropped into Europe."
No one in the room failed to recognize that voice.
Ragnar's eyes widened in shock.
So did Thomas's.
'Why is he here?!'
The pressure vanished as quickly as it had come, and everyone let out a collective breath.
Slowly, they turned.
Standing there, arms crossed and smiling—but with eyes that weren't smiling at all—was the last person Ragnar wanted to see.
The man's hair was short and vivid crimson, shining like fresh blood in the dim lights of the control room. His eyes, glowing with the same deep red, shimmered with something unreadable.
"Saint Solomon!?" someone shouted.
Everyone but Ragnar and Thomas immediately bowed.
Ragnar cut off his mic and addressed him directly.
"Saint Solomon. What are you doing here?"
Solomon tilted his head and gave a dramatic shake of it.
"What's the matter, King Ragnar? I finished the game I was playing and thought I'd get some fresh air."
'Fresh air? In Europe?!' Ragnar clenched his fists.
'Calm down… he's still a Saint…'
Thomas wisely remained silent, turning his attention to the screen. Azriel was tapping the drone with a slightly impatient look.
"I also sensed the mana from that little Leviathan vanish about an hour ago," Solomon added, still smiling. "And since you were already here—and probably the most competent—I figured you might know something."
Ragnar's gaze narrowed.
"…So you noticed it too."
"Hmm? Oh yes. Can someone pass me a headset? I'd like to speak to him," Solomon said cheerfully.
An operator rushed forward with trembling hands, offering the headset like it was a sacred artifact.
Solomon accepted it with a playful laugh.
"Hahaha! You're all so tense. Relax a little," he said, slipping it on.
"Hello? Test, test. Can you hear me?"
Azriel blinked in surprise.
"Solomon?"
"Ah, I knew you'd recognize me! Unlike this boring gramps," Solomon said smugly.
Veins popped on Ragnar's temple.
'Since when did I become a gramps!?'
"Should I be worried this is good luck or bad luck for me…" Azriel muttered under his breath.
Ragnar raised an eyebrow at the comment but said nothing.
He had other headaches to deal with—starting with the fact that Solomon Dragonheart had now involved himself.
'And what's taking the squads and medical team so long…?'
"I mean," Azriel continued nervously, "it'd be bad luck if you thought I was a skinwalker too. I'm not exactly eager to die, you know…"
"Oh? So are you one?" Solomon asked, completely serious.
Azriel blinked. "...Of course not."
"Well, there you have it!" Solomon declared. He stood up, brushing imaginary dust from his clothes.
"I'll go fetch him, then. Try not to die in the next fifteen minutes, alright? See ya~!"
He tossed the headset aside and strode toward the exit like it was just another errand.
"W-Wait! We're already preparing a coordinated rescue mission with SFAQ and SFBQ!" Ragnar shouted after him.
Solomon waved a hand lazily.
"Don't worry, I've already told them it's fine. I'm faster. And stronger."
The door slid closed behind him.
On the screen, Azriel blinked.
"He's… coming to get me?"
Ragnar didn't answer. He just kept staring at the closed door.
His expression unreadable.
'He already told them it was fine, huh…'
'He always has a way of reminding me not to underestimate him, even with that reckless attitude.'
And yet… maybe it was for the best.
If anyone could tell whether this boy was truly Azriel Crimson—or something far worse—it was Solomon.
Because Solomon Dragonheart wasn't just anyone.
He was a Grade 2 Saint.